Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
by RaeLynn Skye
Summary: On the way back to the Mansion, and Marie, Logan stops in the woods to wonder on his life. A poem-fic to Robert Frost’s “Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening.”


Summary: A poem-fic to Robert Frost's "Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening." Logan stops in the woods to wonder on his life.  
  
Feedback: PLEASE. I love feedback, people may think that it doesn't matter, but honestly, if you don't get feedback, it's no fun, remember this at the end of the story…I might even remind you.  
  
Disclaimer: Hardly any of this is mine. Stopping by Woods isn't mine, Logan isn't mine, Marie isn't mine, nothing is mine but the plot and the writing.  
  
Authors notes: The poem is, of course, Robert Frosts "Stopping by woods on a Snowy Evening." And the character who is the main character, identified mainly as "he" is Logan. Obviously you could identify his love as anyone up until the point I mention some physical characteristics, but I did intend it to be Marie. I hope you enjoy this fic, I don't know if I rated it to low, but I think it's PG, for mentions of suicide. I feel it's rather tame though. I've been meaning to write something to this poem for quite a while, so I hope you enjoy it. If you want to read the poem, and you don't know it, it goes right along as it does in the story, I didn't change it a bit.  
  
Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening.  
  
He had left. Needed time to think, he was bored, restless, tired, alone, scared. He had fallen in love with someone he couldn't be with. Love had taken him by surprise and it hadn't been nice like he'd always heard. Love hurt, like an arrow in your chest, a bullet in your brain. It hurt worse than he had ever been hurt before, and that said a considerable amount, his past accounted for.  
  
Whose woods these are I think I know.  
  
His house is in the village though.  
  
He will not see me stopping here  
  
To watch his woods fill up with snow.  
  
He had ridden for days, then nights, then days again, and nights again, time had passed on the wings of a white sparrow and nothing had been found, just as nothing had been lost. A stasis was all life seemed to be. All it seemed to want to be. He had ridden days and nights again, not stopping to rest, eat or sleep. He could do that, his body would allow him to do anything. And now he was back where he had begun, where his life had seemed to begin. He was back, near her, near his forbidden love. The one he knew would tear his heart into a million pieces if he ever gave it to her. But no one knew he was there, and that was the brilliance of it. He was leaning against a tree that didn't belong to him, and he had slipped by the defenses of the owner by the slightest margin. It had been so easy.  
  
My little horse must think it queer  
  
To stop without a farmhouse near  
  
Between the woods and frozen lake  
  
The darkest evening of the year.  
  
The lake and the trees are so beautiful, snow frosted and shivery, with an ambience that makes him think back to her. The beautiful girl with the long brown hair and beautiful brown eyes. She was so soft, so open, so free to give what she had and take what was given in return. He had nothing to give her. Nothing but heartache and misery. She wouldn't understand how there were times when he couldn't control himself; times when he could only hope that he could get away from people before he ripped them to shreds. She wouldn't understand, she couldn't. No one could, not even himself. Life was just like this, cold and hard and unforgiving. And it made him think of things he didn't want to think of, remember things he didn't want to remember. It struck a chord in his heart with incredible cruelty.  
  
He gives his harness bells a shake  
  
To ask if there is some mistake  
  
The only other sound's the sweep  
  
Of easy wind and downy flake.  
  
He's sure he imagines it when he hears her voice on the wind, sure that it's just an illusion he made to comfort himself. She would never come for him, she doesn't care. He doesn't want her to care, it would hurt him to hurt her, and he knows that there is no possible way not to hurt her. He sighs to himself. Opens his mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. He hears her voice again. The wind suddenly blows a little harder, the snow falls a little more. Night isn't coming anymore, it is there. And he sits and waits for the world to come to an end, just like it seems that it should. He sits and waits for her to come, knowing she never will, that it will never end. Her voice rings out in the night yet again.  
  
The woods are lovely, dark and deep.  
  
But I have promises to keep,  
  
And miles to go before I sleep,  
  
And miles to go before I sleep.  
  
His claws slip out of the slits between his knuckles. He draws them ever so slowly across his face, the only part of him not covered in leather or denim. It feels cleansing when the blood flows out of the wounds on his face and onto the previously untouched snow in front of him. It feels like pleasure rather than pain. Soon though, the wounds close and he is well again. Well in the natural meaning of the word. His voice bellows out over the icy dunes of the water, over the leafy green trees; and he hears her voice again. "I'll understand Logan. Just come back to me. I'm dying inside without you." The wind calms him until he is sure he will be able to go on. He hops onto his bike and the engine roars to life under him. And he begins the slow trek back to her. 


End file.
